


What Hidden Lies Within

by serapheim



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Acceptance, Alternate Universe, Bleeding, Bromance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epic Bromance, Epic Friendship, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Athos, Insecurity, Magical Realism, Stitches, Trust, Wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 12:39:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2110233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serapheim/pseuds/serapheim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos has a secret that he doesn't want to share with anyone, even his closest friends. When he is wounded, he is finally forced to show them what lies within.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Hidden Lies Within

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princeyoungjaes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princeyoungjaes/gifts).



_“The best way of keeping a secret is to pretend there isn't one.”_

_― Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin_

 

 

There is a reason behind Athos being a brilliant swordsman. But not the one that everyone thinks it is. Everyone who has ever seen him spar marvels at his talent with the sword. Some even try to guess who was his, undoubtedly, very expensive tutor. Athos ignores all the talks. He does not deny nor confirm his elite upbringing, because it is irrelevant.

 

What important is that Athos is so good that nobody is able to get close to him enough to pierce his skin. A small nick is nothing. He wears thick leathers that protect him, and even if he suffers a scratch, nothing would be noticeable, unless he is sloppy.

 

And he always takes care of those. 

 

It is a real wound that he fears. Not for the wound itself, but for what it might expose.

 

It is a miracle, indeed, that in all those years of serving the king and the country, Athos has never been seriously injured. Of course, he has had his share of bruises and sore heads and strained muscles. A scratch or two; once - a very shallow cut that he managed to hide and treat himself. But nothing serious enough to render him unconscious. Nothing that would require removing his clothes and letting a medic or a fellow musketeer to treat his wounds.

 

It helps that Athos prefers to stay away from others. Only with the appearance of Aramis and Porthos in his life, he finally allows himself to relax a bit. He trusts his friends more than he has ever trusted anyone in his life. Still Athos is very conscious of his secret and makes sure that his skin is kept protected.

 

He nicks a thumb once in the stables and immediately binds it with a strip of linen, that he produces from his pocket. Porthos looks at him in faint surprise, making a joke about how he never expected Athos to be that _delicate_. Athos just rolls his eyes at him. Under the bandage he can feel the place of the prick itch horribly.

 

When they stage his death as the part of the intricate plot to outwit Milady and Cardinal, and he is cradled in Porthos’ warm embrace, as Aramis’ hand presses to the place where his wound is supposed to be, Athos feels _lucky._ Because if the wound were real and his friends learned what was inside of him, they would not be there touching him, grounding him, making him feel secure.

 

They would be gone.

 

The blood that Aramis covers him with is sticky and so different from what runs through Athos’ veins, that he has to clam his mouth shut, lest a mad laughter escapes. And dead men don’t laugh.

 

Life moves on, and without Milady’s oppressing presence, that used to hang over his head like an axe, Athos feels almost heavenly light. His friends are alive, _he_ is alive, and all should be well.

 

Only it is never like that in real life, and less than a week after the drastic culmination during which Athos had a dozen of chances to get hurt, but came through unscathed, he is wounded.

 

It happens during one of those infamous _incidents_ with the red guards that has Paris talking for days. Cardinal’s men have a new guard, named Benichou, who is very good with the blade. Athos is naturally better, but he is distracted by d’Artagnan who seems to have a death wish and charges three opponents at once. Benichou’s rapier slices through Athos’ jacket and cuts across his abdomen, although the musketeer manages to stop the thrust last second from becoming a mortal wound.

 

Athos does draw back though and has to fall down on one knee, feeling faint. But before he can even ask for help, Porthos is charging Benichou and the guard is disarmed in seconds. They can’t really linger long at the duel scene, so they all retreat: the musketeers one way and the guards the other.

 

Both Aramis and Porthos fuss around him, but Athos keeps saying that it is alright and it is not that bad and he doesn’t need them, so stop hovering, _please_.

 

It doesn’t help, of course. D’Artagnan says that he will be at the garrison - most likely spoiling for a fight there, thinks Athos, but he can’t really talk to the boy right now. The cut across his stomach hurts, but the worst thing is that he can feel his skin itch and move. It is a bad sign.

 

“Athos, please, let me examine the wound,” says Aramis for what seems to be the hundredth time. His voice has a desperate note to it and a good deal of frustration. Porthos is silent at his side. He is helping Athos walk and lets Aramis do all the persuading.

 

Athos thinks if he can make them both leave by the time they reach his lodgings. But he knows the answer to that all to well, being often the one bestowing his care upon his comrades. None of them are very good at dealing with each other’s injuries, taking them very close to heart.

 

“I am fine,” he grunts out, but leans more heavily on Porthos. The wound has made him weak, and it needs to be sewn, but he hopes to do it himself.

 

Of course, when they get to his rooms, he is disposed gently on the bed and is told in the tone brooking no argument that neither Aramis nor Porthos are leaving before his wound is taken care of.

 

“I am telling you, I am fine,” Athos snaps. “Stop mothering me. I don’t need your care.”

 

Those are cruel words and he doesn’t mean them. His heart aches, when Aramis’ face becomes grim, and Porthos starts biting his lips. He doesn’t want to hurt his friends, but if hurting them would mean preventing them from discovering his secret, then so be it.

 

“I don’t understand, what’s the big deal about it,” huffs Porthos. His hands are clasped on his belt, in the pose that is usually reserved for outsiders, betraying his tension. “Aramis has mended my wounds a dozen of times. You know he is very good at it.”

 

“You don’t have to be modest around us, Athos,” says Aramis in his gentlest voice, and Athos almost chokes on his laughter. _Modest_ , they think he is being _modest._

 

_Oh, God Almighty!_

 

“How many times do I have to tell you that I am fine?” Athos says, talking in his driest tone. “It is just a scratch.”

 

Aramis crosses his arms and looks at Porthos. Porthos rolls his eyes and leans forward and pokes Athos in the midriff, which causes him immediately to hiss and curl onto himself.

 

“Not just a scratch,” announces Porthos. 

 

“Right,” Aramis takes off his hat and his weapons, disposing them on Athos’ chair. “I am going to prepare to sew that wound, and you, Athos,” he points at him, “can either take off that jacket or I will have Porthos hit you.”

 

Porthos nods and cracks his knuckles, undoubtedly, somewhat eager to return the favour for all those times when he was knocked unconscious. Athos almost rolls his eyes again. 

 

Athos has never told anyone about this. Anne never knew. She never really had a chance to learn his secret. Or perhaps she had her suspicions, as she was the one who killed Thomas after all. But she never knew the _extension_ of it.

 

“My friends, please,” says Athos, and something in his voice must be off, because Aramis stops mid gesture and looks at Porthos in slight confusion. Athos is pressing his hands onto his abdomen with all his might, but he can feel something crawling under his skin, _on_ his skin, and he knows that he doesn’t have enough time left. 

 

“Please,” he says again, “if you respect me, you will leave.”

 

Aramis looks hurt. “Why won’t you trust us?” he asks softly, and Athos curses himself and his cursed bloodline.

 

“Because I have a secret,” he finally admits, gritting his teeth, “something that you would undoubtedly find revolting and horrific. For the sake of our friendship, please, leave now.”

 

There is some sort of silent communication going on between Aramis and Porthos, both of them staring at each other without saying anything, and Athos marvels once again at how attuned those two are to each other’s thoughts. Not a word is said out loud, but he can pinpoint an exact moment when the mutual decision is reached.  

 

Both Aramis and Porthos turn to Athos, and Porthos says, “Show us.”

 

It is more of a command, than a request, and Athos is very good at following orders, even though he is not that good with requests.

 

He keeps one hand pressed to his stomach, as he meekly unbuttons his jacket and awkwardly shrugs it off one shoulder, until Aramis helps him to take it off completely. Athos’ hand does not leave his abdomen, but there is no blood on his shirt, and he can see confusion on Aramis’ face.

 

“It is a curse,” Athos says quietly, “all men in our family suffered from it.”

 

He tugs the shirt over his head, keeping his right hand still pressed to his stomach, covering the wound and what is trying to crawl outside from his friends’ eyes. He can not look at them, so he just sits there for a moment, his shoulders hunched.

 

Finally, it is Aramis who gently gets ahold of his shirt and tugs his hand away from his wound. 

 

There are five of them, all sky blue, that have already crawled from his stomach. They sit on his skin, bright and lively, fluttering their two-coloured wings as if it is the flowers that they are perching on and not human flesh.

 

Both of his friends are silent. 

 

Athos is afraid to look up.

 

“Are these,” Aramis sounds unsure, “butterflies?”

 

Athos nods, and this slight movement causes one of the butterflies to leave his skin and flutter around. 

 

“So, you are not bleeding?” asks Porthos.

 

“That _is_ me bleeding.” Athos sighs. “I don’t have any explanation for this. It is just the way it is. I have always been like that, ever since I was born. As far as I know, it runs in the family.”

 

“But you can’t bleed to death, can you?” Porthos insists, ever a practical man.

 

“I don’t know, to be honest,” admits Athos. “I am not particularly eager to find that out either.” He finally finds courage in himself to look up. Porthos looks confused, but not horrified, and Aramis’ face is alight with wonderment, as if he is gazing upon miracle of miracles. 

 

Aramis looks Athos in the eye and smiles. “That’s the God’s gift,” he says, his voice full of quiet awe. 

 

Athos can’t help raising an eyebrow at that. “So, you are not,” he has to stop to think of the word that would not sound too harsh but can’t think of nothing else, but: “revolted?”

 

Porthos shrugs, “I’ve seen pretty weird stuff in the Court of Miracles. This is nothing compared to that. Looks cool to me.”

 

Aramis shakes his head. “It is a miracle, my friend, not a curse. And if it saves you from dying of blood loss, than it is twice a miracle, indeed.”

 

This acceptance in the face of something so inexplicable, so strange, is overwhelming. And if there is any gift that God has ever bestowed upon him, it would be his brothers’ love. Athos looks away, momentarily rendered speechless.

 

“I still need to stitch that, I am afraid,” says Aramis, motioning towards Athos’ wound, “May I?”

 

Athos nods, and Aramis gently shoos the butterflies away. Athos is glad that he can’t feel their tiny legs and fluttering wings on his skin anymore. He lies back and lets Aramis sew the cut. He can hear Porthos pacing the room, but neither of them say anything.

 

Somewhere mid stitch, Aramis pauses, and Athos is about to ask him about it when he feels that crawling inside his skin again. With rapt attention, Aramis watches another butterfly crawl from the gaping wound. It hobbles at the still unstitched edge and its wings are damp. The upper side of its wings is brilliant azure, while underside is brownish grey and is covered with orange and black dots.

 

Aramis gently prods it with his finger and the butterfly grips it with its legs and crawls firstly into his digit, then up to his hand. He finishes sewing the wound with a butterfly crawling up his arm.

 

When he is done and has bandaged Athos, Aramis walks to the window and cracks it open to gently let out the butterfly, as well as the others that have been crowding by the glass, attracted by the sunlight.

 

Athos watches Aramis being so gentle with those creepy little creatures produced by his body and he is confused. He has never paid much attention to them after they leave their body and can’t help wondering why Aramis is treating them as something precious.

 

He must have said it out loud or maybe Aramis can read his mind as well as Porthos’, because Aramis catches his eye, smiles a little and says, “They are part of you, Athos. I would never deliberately hurt you or any part of your body.”

 

“What this sappy idiot is trying to say,” interjects Porthos, his tone gruff, but the words betray the depth of his emotion, “is that we care about you. And you can trust us. _Always._ ”

 

Aramis presses hand to his heart and bows his head in a gallant gesture, and Porthos rolls his eyes. “Well, maybe not Aramis. He _is_ a bit of a sly dog,” he jokes and gets a friendly elbow in the ribs for his trouble. 

 

“No more secrets,” implores Aramis.

 

“That was the last one,” says Athos with a wry half-smile, “I promise.”

 

“Good,” Porthos claps his hands. “Now, where is the wine?”

 

“I have none,” says Athos, and both Aramis and Porthos stare at him, until they catch up with the mirth in his eyes, and snort in unison.

 

“You are so full of,” Aramis pauses.

 

“Butterflies?” Prompts Porthos, and both he and Aramis roar with laughter.

 

Athos groans and falls back on the bed.

 

“I will never hear the end of it, will I?” he asks resignedly.

 

“No,” say two voices at the same time and laugh again.

 

“Good,” murmurs Athos, closing his eyes, “I would expect nothing else of you both.”

 

 

//

 

August 6, 2014

**Author's Note:**

> The butterfly that I have in mind is male Adonis Blue.
> 
> Also, when I was writing this I didn't know how to name the story, so my file was (and still is) titled as "Athos is full of butterflies". XD


End file.
